


Ask And Ye Shall Receive: Season Three

by bcnightsquad



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bellarke, Canon, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, bed sharing, drinking and drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9577463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bcnightsquad/pseuds/bcnightsquad
Summary: a collection of drabbles written by our agents during season three: a little of everything and a lot of bellarke.each chapter has a different rating from teen to nsfw which will be noted





	

**Author's Note:**

> come and find us [on tumblr](http://bcnightsquad.tumblr.com). these fics are very short because they were written as gift fic to be sent to tumblr users in their ask.

** Agent 1 **  
rated: teen

canon, sleeplessness, bed sharing  
Clarke doesn’t sleep deeply any longer. Noises in the night startle her awake so she’s gasping and unsure what woke her. She sleeps fitfully, spends hours awake when the world is quiet. She doesn’t mind so much now. Doesn’t mind when she can tuck herself into his back, nose the line of his throat, the dark curls she finds there. Bellamy’s breathing is slow and deep and she can time her own to match. Their room is dark and warm and if she takes his hand even asleep he squeezes back.

canon, teasing  
Bellamy figures she’s not teasing him on purpose. She’s only just relearning casual touch and he doesn’t want to scare her off. But now Clarke stands behind his chair, presses her weight into him through the palm of her hand. She’s found the hair at the base of his neck to toy with. It’d be fine, he thinks, if she didn’t catch her nails on his scalp absently. If it didn’t sends shivers over his scalp, straight down his spine with every repetition. His mouth falls open, and he moans.

modern au, night out  
Bellamy loves the rumble of bass guitar in his chest. The close, hot press of bodies in the dark. But the best part of a night like this is a girl like Clarke. The way her spine bends and her arms bend back to grab his hips. The way her torso rock with his, his palms sliding against the bare skin over her shorts. He buries his face in the hollow of her throat, scrapes his teeth over the rhythm of her pulse. Her head tips back, he obliges her, lets her catch his lip and bite it.

canon, teasing  
Clarke Griffin is trying to seduce him. It starts so small he almost misses it: cold fingers under the hem of his shirt when she passes. Her hand on his arm, spine, the edge of his throat. Leaning over his shoulder to read a map, her voice in his ear. But when her nail catches the edge of his button fly, gaze boldly dropping the length of his body, Bellamy is in the game. He matches her grin with his own and crowds into her, watches her lips part, expectant…then he says goodnight.

modern, established relationship, fluff  
“What kind of porn do you watch?” Clarke asks from her perch in his lap, beer bottle dangling between her fingers. Bellamy’s mouth falls open; he’s pretty sure he _intended_ to say words, but Clarke has that affect on him. She must feel him go tense beneath her, cause she cranes back to look at him, wiggles her ass against his thigh until his growing hardness is unmistakable. He wants to kiss the knowing smugness off her face when she says, “You know, if we were gonna watch some.”

body swap  
“Don’t,” Bellamy warns, Clarke rolls her eyes. His? This is confusing. 

“Hypocrite” she says, rougher than she intends. She eyes the buttons he’s left undone over her cleavage. His? She’s getting a headache. She pops the top button her fly; after all, body swap magic is once in a life time. She never thought of her hands as small til she watches them try to wrap around her borrowed wrists. 

“Do I always sound that good?” he smirks at her, dipping his crooked smile to her mouth.

first kiss  
The first time, Bellamy thinks it might be a mistake. Clarke’s mouth is hot and her lips are chapped but she kisses him like she’s trying to force herself beneath his skin. When he doesn’t respond at first, he feels her anxious swallow. Her eyes skate across his face, dropping to his mouth and back up. 

“Are you going to make me beg?” she asks, a small tremor belying the tease. Bellamy touches his lips with his tongue and tastes the evidence of her need for him.

“I might, yeah.” 

canon, hickeycanon, swimming hole  
Clarke really doesn’t intend to follow Bellamy to the bathing hole; she just wants privacy to bathe and it seemed like a good time. But there he is, waist deep in the water, skin piqued from scrubbing. Clarke’s mouth goes dry at the way droplets cling to his skin. She must move or make some sound because he turns towards her. A grin rises on his lips, and he shakes his hair to show off. When Bellamy walks towards her, each step bares a more skin: his chest, waist, hips, and then…

canon, at the ocean  
Clarke doesn’t know what it is about a Blake and water, but Bellamy at the ocean is Octavia at the river all over again. Most of the group are happy to roll up their pants and wade in til waves lap at their knees, but Bellamy strips down to his briefs and ducks under completely. He shakes water from his hair when he resurfaces and Clarke looks quickly away. She certainly doesn’t watch the drips run over his muscles, or wonder what his warm skin feels like in contrast to the icy water.

blindfold, teasing  
In Bellamy’s bed, with his fingers ghosting over her stomach or thighs or the pulse in her wrist, Clarke can give up her sight. It makes her aware of every sound, of every time the bed dips, yet she manages to be surprised by each touch. Her skin buzzes with it. When he brushes the bottom of her foot, Clarke jolts, snaps her foot up reflexively. Her heel connects solidly with his hip and he catches her ankle. He half groans and half laughs, playfully biting the inside of her calf. 

canon, hand holding in the rain  
Bellamy huffs out a breath and blows water off his lips. There’s no avoiding being soaked to the bone and he’s given up entirely on staying dry. When he tips his head up, opens his mouth to rain Clarke can’t help but watch. It’s a Bellamy she barely remembers, light and unburdened. For a moment he isn’t worrying about anything, nor carrying his guilt. His fingers are cold and wet when Clarke twists hers into them. He doesn’t look at her, but Clarke thinks he smiles a little wider. 

bed sharing, sleeping in  
Bellamy traces his fingers over the bumps in her spine, brushes her blonde hair over her shoulder so his path is unobstructed. Clarke’s skin is warm with sleep and she shifts restlessly under him, buries herself more snugly into her pillow. He doesn’t stop his gentle brush of skin on skin, draws absent patterns down her back to the dip in her waist and the swell of her hips. When he nips the top of her ass she moves, kicks his thigh, “five more minutes” she grumbles into her pillow 

modern bed sharing  
Clarke falls asleep as soon as her face hits the pillow, spread over most of the bed and limbs askew. It’s good though, it gives him a chance to appreciate her, watch passing cars spill light across her skin. He fits himself into the spaces she leaves in their bed like puzzle pieces, presses his mouth against the sensitive skin behind her ear and is rewarded with her shifting closer to him, even asleep. Bellamy palms the weight of her breast, kisses the edge of her jaw. It’s good. 

canon, Bellamy's hands  
Clarke loves his hands. The callouses on his palms that scrape her skin. Even the pale freckle of scars on his knuckles from all the times Bellamy’s fought for her, beside her, to get to her. Clarke is fascinated by their size, the way she can clasp one in both of her own and still feel small. Or the way he palms her hip in the night, digs his fingers against the bones under her skin until she feels at home in her skeleton. Clarke kisses his finger tips when he traces her lazy smile.

canon, sharing a shower  
Raven gets hot showers working in Arkadia and Bellamy resolves to give her anything she asks for. Framing the last of the cabins they’re trying to get up before the winter is exhausting, tedious work and the pound of hot water over sore muscles is a heaven send. It gets better when Clarke ducks into the cramped shower behind him, crowds into his back. She licks a bead of water from the skin between his shoulders and he gives a whole body shiver, tips his head back for her eager kiss.

canon, good earth cleavage  
Clarke insists it’s only teasing if you don’t follow through. She catches Bellamy watching her across the table and leans forward on her elbows. If her Henley top has any buttons left, Clarke ignores them entirely. The poor lighting around the fire pit and its surrounding tables throws deep shadows. He follows the suggestion of the shadows, trails his gaze down her throat to the deep v of her cleavage. She stands when he swallows, licks dry lips, and pulls him away to find privacy. 

modern, night out  
Bellamy doesn’t really dance, but it’s never a chore to talk him out onto the dance floor with Clarke. She makes him look good and he’s in for any excuse to loop his arm around her waist and press his mouth against her throat. She rocks back into his hips and he braces one hand under her breast, bracketing his thumb and finger along her underwire. From behind her he can look down the line of her body as she tips her head back onto his shoulder, and dot kisses on her smiling mouth. 

modern, night out, pining Bellamy  
It’s no big deal. Clarke’s a friend; Bellamy likes dancing. It’s not their first turn in a crowded bar. But the beat is low and slow when Clarke cants her hips into the pulse of it under his hands and the way she snakes her ribs does ungodly things in the play of tacky Christmas lights over her sweat shined skin. Her closed eyes fan golden lashes on the tops of her cheeks. Bellamy must say her name because she looks up at him bumps her nose against his and they breath in the same breath.

canon, combat couple  
Bellamy’s body obscures Clarke. When he lifts his hands carefully (no sudden movements) he looms over her. Fills the space. He watches her take a slow, steady breath. Her face is relaxed and there is brightness in her eyes. His lips twitch even as he calls: “have you really thought this through?” 

It covers the soft sound of his holster’s snap, muffled by Clarke’s palm. She has the audacity to wink at him before she draws, his gun clearing the holster as he twists his body out of her way.

modern, house party, drinking  
Bellamy had thought that he was opposed to Dr McGillicuddy’s affront to whiskey as a matter of principal. He had opinions about it and a deeply held sense of superiority. But he chases the burn of cinnamon across Clarke’s mouth eagerly. He lets her crowd her way into his lap on a dilapidated couch at a shitty house party and is hungry for it. He settles his hands on her hips, tucks his fingers under her shirt. When she rocks down in his lap he chases the smile off her mouth too. 

canon, distraction kisses  
Clarke always knows when the seemingly endless resource management gets to him. When it causes a steady pulse of tension behind his temples. On those days she steps wordlessly into the v of Bellamy’s thighs and guides his chin up with a gentle press of finger tips. When she bends toward his mouth her blonde hair curtains their faces so the world closes in to just the two of them. He loves the way her skin flushes when he mouths her collar as she kisses away the furrow in his brow.

shaving  
Bellamy never closes his eyes when he lets Clarke shave him. He likes to look up at her, chin forced up by her gentle fingers. It’s torture. She stands in the indolent sprawl of his thighs, runs the sharp blade down the curve of his jaw. Her hands never tremble and she catches her tongue between her teeth when she concentrates. He settles his hands on her hips, brushes his thumbs under the hem of his shirt. When she’s done she thumbs the scar over his lip, chases it with her mouth.

Clarke's Grounder gear  
The leather of Clarke’s corset is warm from her body, pulled tight over her ribs. Bellamy can feel it expand with her breath under his fingers as she settles over his lap, the metal container must be hard on her knees but she doesn’t complain. She watches him with impossibly blue eyes and makes no move to stop him as he traces his fingers higher, draws them together over the ties across her sternum. He presses one hand flat against them, presses until he knows they’ll mark his palm.

canon, motorcycle  
Clarke knows she has shit she needs to do. They need to get on with their days. Miles to go, as ever. But her mouth goes a little dry when Bellamy sits back on the motorcycle, rests his hands casually on his wide spread thighs. The whole center of gravity is low, the machine rumbling under him. She swallows hard, shakes her head. The corner of his lips twitch though, threaten a smug grin and he knows exactly how hard her pulse is thundering. Course, he has to lean up to kiss her.

canon, holding hands  
Bellamy’s skin is warm under her fingers. When Clarke trails her finger tips over his index finger, up the bump of his first knuckle he stiffens in his seat. Behind them Octavia and Jasper are deep in their own conversation, filling the Rover with it. He doesn’t look at her but he doesn’t move his hand either. Her finger circles the bump of his knuckle and trails down, follows the long bones in his hand and the thread of tendons. She seeks out the pulse in his wrist and lingers there. 

canon, shaving  
Clarke likes watching Bellamy shave after some task has taken him away. A home he stays clean shaven but never bothers on the road, so his first night home leaves the burn of stubble on her thighs. The next morning Clarke braces herself on one elbow, stays in bed to watch as he scrapes away their days apart. He has to focus so she gets to study him, catalog new injuries, new weight to the burden he carries. When he finishes she kisses his damp jaw, nuzzles the smooth skin there.

canon, Clarke is Grumpy Cat  
“She’s the worst,” Clarke says angrily, knocks the door shut behind her. When Bellamy huffs a laugh through his nose she scowls at him, and then softens, juts out her lower lip and says it again. She stops through the cramped apartment, kicks off her boots so they thump against a wall. She leans back into his chest when he wraps his arms around her waist and nibbles at the juncture of her neck. 

“I hate her,” she says, growls the words through her teeth and turns her head to kiss him.

modern, shotgunning  
Clarke’s whole body moves when she shakes up her beer can and Bellamy, who knows he’s a dog, smiles wolfishly at her. The scrape of a pen puncturing the can is awful. She bends forward, hair spilling over her shoulder in a gold wave, her pink ombre crawling up from the ends. She seals her mouth over the hole she’s made, pops the tab and Bellamy watches her throat work. Lukewarm beer escapes the edge of her smile. He kisses it off her jaw, is rewarded with the rumble of her laughter.

modern, damp Bellamy _again_  
Bellamy knows Clarke is watching him, can practically feel the heat of her gaze on his skin like the sun. He shakes water from his soaked hair–cracks a grin at Raven’s shout of surprise as it hits her–but the show is all for Clarke. He settles one hand on his hip, meets her bright eyes when she looks at him over the top of her sunglasses. When he palms himself, readjusts himself obviously and lazily her gaze drops from his, her lip catches between her teeth. He smiles even wider. 

canon, unintentional teasing  
Clarke likes to stand during council meetings, pace. Sometimes she rests her hand on Bellamy’s shoulder when she’s done, curls her fingers against his throat. She can’t know that every time she circles her fingers there a shiver run straight down his spine. Her blunt nail scrapes the base of his neck & Bellamy is sure she must feel his flinch at the hot shot of want that lightnings through him. He glances up at her and finds her watching him with eyes blown wide and blue. She knows.

making out  
Bellamy is obsessed with Clarke. He’s a lost man and he’s just fine with that. He trails his mouth over the dip in her waist, bumps his nose into the edge of her ribs and bites at the flesh he finds there. He cages her in with his hands pressed against the thin cot on either side of her but she’s not going anywhere. Clarke threads her hands into his air and tugs softly, makes pretty, soft sounds under the slide of his lips. Her whole body trembles when he bites the curve of her ribs. 

canon, domestics, combat couple  
Bellamy smells like gun smoke when she nuzzles into the sweat-damp hair at the base of his scalp. Clarke’s arms band around his shoulders; he ducks his head, tucks his chin so he can nose into her forearm, bites the bump of bone in her wist. She makes a happy sound against his hair, presses forward until the back of the chair digs uncomfortably against her stomach and ribs. He abandons the guns he’s cleaning to reach back to find her skin. He rumbles low and happy at her touch.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! we love comments and kudos!


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